


The Heart of the Mountain

by jeza_red



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Other, angst like whoa!, bear with me here, hobbitkink fill, kind of fix-it, the mountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:27:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/pseuds/jeza_red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dragon came, the fiery lizard, coveting her treasures, killing her children. It invaded her like a disgusting worm and she couldn’t keep them safe. </p><p>Her: a kingdom. A home. Erebor! </p><p>She couldn’t keep her children safe!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

She was never young, not as far as she could remember. And she could remember far into the past; to the time when gentle hands of the gods shaped the land. To the time when nothing grew, but the mountains. When nothing sung, but winds and rivers.

Then it was just her in the vast, empty plane; only a notch on the long line of the horizon. She stood proud and grand, and alone. And for a while she didn’t even know it, the loneliness wasn’t something she even considered. It was nothing more than a fact, another constant in her unchanging existence.

When the plains started growing green and first creatures stumbled through it on four legs, she was still unaffected. She was too big for them to comprehend, too static to pay attention to. She just _was_ – always in the same place, taken for granted by all that lived off her. By the trees at her feet and the shrubs on her arms, by the birds that chose to nest in the crevices of her thick skin. Even by the worms living underneath it.

She wasn’t alive like them, yet there was an ember life within her. Deep in the centre, below the roots of the forests, under heavy rocks – in the place that has never seen sunshine or starlight - rested her heart. Beating in a steady rhythm: slow like time, fixed like eternity. Heart that made her alive even when she couldn’t move or speak, even when she was frozen in place: a lonely mountain full of unseen riches.

It only made sense that one day someone would show up for these riches and dare to take them.

They were small, like grains of sand compared to her, but they were many and they were strong enough to lift her heavy skin and start digging into her insides. She didn’t like them at first, if mountains can dislike, she wanted them gone. Because their iron tools hurt her and their greedy hands kept taking what was hers. They drilled holes into her bones, dug out her living marrow that glittered gold and silver.

She wanted them gone, but she couldn’t do much to make it happen; she could only seethe quietly.

And she would seethe for eternity, if she didn’t realise one day that there was love in their every step, touch, song. They’ve spoken to her with kind words, with voices that in the beginning were rough like gravel, tough like granite. That later became younger, clear as crystals and malleable like silver.

They’ve spoken: Mountain. Kingdom.

And then they’ve spoken: Home.

So she became a home. A kingdom. A Lonely Mountain that wasn’t lonely anymore, for, unlike the birds and other animals, they didn’t migrate as soon as their younglings matured, didn’t disappear for seasons on end. They’ve stayed and talked to her, and so she welcomed them.  

She became Erebor, a home to Durin’s line, to many children that loved her with undying affection.

And after a while she’s learned to love them back.

 

+

 

She loved them for their agile fingers that gathered the gems and ores she gifted them with. Whatever they took, they polished and shaped into dainty jewellery and all kinds of useful objects. They carved statues out of her bones that were so detailed even she could be sometimes fooled into thinking herself to be a living thing. Even without seeing it all, for mountains couldn’t really see, she could feel it in every particle of her being. Like a blind man who feels the touch of sun on his skin and knows that the day has risen.

That’s how she felt when the third son in the line of Thror was born. She’s heard his voice and adored it more than any other. Because his heart was clear as crystal and his will hard as diamond. He was one for battle and honour, for protecting his people and caring about them without a care for the riches or praise.

She gave him riches anyway – gold and silver, – in hopes of catching his heart. But he ignored them. So she gave him precious stones in thanks for the times he graced her corridors with songs of glory, because she loved his voice above all others. But he wasn’t happy with gifts, gold and jewels were stored in the chamber he rarely went into to admire them. He took to wearing cold iron instead, not fitting as the sign of her affection even if it was the best, strongest metal she could offer. 

So, in the end, she decided to give him something that no one else could have. The most precious of all jewels – her own heart.

 

+

 

He never liked looking at the sky. It was too bright and too wide, hanging over the flat land like some kind of heavy canopy that threatened to fall at a drop of a hat. It never stopped changing, always in motion that he’s found sickening when he was but a wee dwarfling.

It was unstable with no visible foundation, without roots that would keep it grounded.

But that, Thorin guessed, was the nature of the sky and the world outside of his mountain.

Erebor was stable and strong, proud like the folk living inside her, where everything was measured and in order, where every crevice was known and every element had purpose.

He often looked at Men living in Dale, at their small houses that were also made of stone, but seemed so flimsy and… temporary when compared to his home.

His home. His people. His kingdom.

He was destined to rule it, to care for it, to love it. He was born with that love already resting in his bones, weaved in-between his heartstrings. He would never leave his mountain, not for the riches and not for glory, for here was his rightful place.

Sometimes he dreamt of stepping into the abyss, further than any miner has ever dared to go. In those dreams he was walking through caves and tunnels that glistered with crystals and gems like a night sky, through spacious grottos where the only sound that could be heard was the whispering of the wind. And it spoke of love and devotion.

He dreamt of a face carved in stone – not a dwarven face, nor human. It was beautiful beyond words and different than anything he’s ever seen: old and worn, looking at him with cold, hard stare that quickly turned into kindness and affection. He could feel ghostly hands touching his hands, resting on his chest, where his heart was beating; gentle and soothing, like mother’s touch, like a lover’s caress.

He never wished to leave these dreams. Just like he never wished to leave his home.

 

+

 

The dragon came, the fiery lizard, coveting her treasures, killing her children. It invaded her like a disgusting worm and she couldn’t keep them safe.

Her, a kingdom. A home. Erebor!

She couldn’t keep _her children_ safe!

She could only stay behind as they had ran for their lives, leaving the ones they’ve had in panic. She wept that day, as only a mountain can; angry winds wailed in the deepest mineshafts, sounds of her fury rose to the highest corridors that were so full of life just a day ago...

The wrym found a nest amongst her treasures, as if they’ve ever belonged to it!

Her beloved couldn’t protect his people this time, just as she couldn’t protect him. His heart almost broke from despair that day; she could tell when her own heart almost followed suit. Instead, it has turned cold and hard, hidden under a pile of gold and lifeless stones – all of them meaningless and useless, if there was no one to look upon them with pride.

From that day on she ceased to be a home or a kingdom. She was alone again, like a widowed woman whose children have been taken away. A lonely mountain indeed, falling asleep for however long it will take for the worm to die and her brood to return.

Her memory spanned millennia and she could be as patient as the sky or the rivers. She was tall and strong, every bit of her skin made of hard granite: she could wait forever!

And she would never forgive.

And she would never forget.

 

+

 

He came back decades later, her beloved. With his blue eyes full of fire and his heart full of love, he came back to claim her back from the fire-breather. He brought a handful of others with him, just a few, but it was alright, she loved them all from the moment they’ve stepped into the halls – for their sole presence made her a kingdom again, made her a home. Even a little, it was still better than the emptiness she’s felt throughout all these years. He would bring more, she knew, he would make her a proper home, again she would be called Erebor with pride and admiration; there would be laughter and singing again, and their little swift fingers worshipping her gifts and turning them into treasures.

It was almost hers again, all in her reach. He would make her whole again.

And then he fell in battle, and she felt his heart stop.

His brave, iron-strong heart stopped and she could hear nothing but the deafening silence that was beyond her comprehension.

And was she a woman, a living being, she would tear her hair out and rake sharp fingernails down her face and chest, tearing flesh to shreds,  – and it would still not ease even an ounce of her suffering. But all she could do was to weep, so she wept. She cried and wailed in the voice of thunder and gale, and those who were present on the plain by her feet shivered in fright.

If she could, she would’ve crawled to him, to his broken body and still heart, but she was a mountain and could do no such thing. Never before has she hated her existence so much as then, her persistent nature, her fixed fate.

To love what was just before her, to feel him dying out of her reach!

Her foundations shook with pain and rage, and all creatures gathered outside stepped back in fear. And she was fearsome in that moment: she was an empty home, a kingless throne, a lonely mountain full of useless treasure and useless love!

Because he would never come back, she didn’t want any other! The Lonely Mountain she would stay! The heartless fixture on the horizon, for no love was left in her now, no happiness.  Was she a living being she would rather die with him, with her only king!

And maybe she would’ve shook apart, collapsing the tunnels and chambers, burying the riches she didn’t want to share anymore. She might have turned into dust from her despair, because if it was possible for a mountain to love, why wouldn’t it die of its own will?

But she didn’t die.

Her tremors and wailing silenced when the human with cold hands took her heart and laid it on her beloved’s chest. Right on his heart; on that dreadful stillness that stopped him from coming back.

She has quietened and the creatures on the plain breathed out in relief.

Was she a living thing, she would choke on despair rising to her throat. Feeling the stillness where just hours ago was life, so close, but much too late. Much too late! If she was a woman, she would be shedding tears of sorrow.

But she wasn’t a woman, she was a mountain.

That’s why her voice filled the kingdom – a scream of rage and denial that rolled down the plain like a gust of wind, pushing everything out of its path. A scream of a betrayed, of abandoned. 

She would have him home – or she would have nothing else of this world!

She would have him back – or the world would have nothing of her!

For she was Erebor and she was older than the wizard, older than the elves! Her will was stone and her love was endless!

Decades ago she’s given her heart to the king she loved above all else.

And the heart of a mountain is a powerful thing indeed.

 

+

 

All creatures on the plain froze when the crack of thunder rolled over their heads and under their feet. Some thought that heavens were falling, some that the earth has split. But it wasn’t so.

It was just the heart of a mountain breaking so the one underneath it could beat again. 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

He was crowned properly three months after the battle. When enough of his kin came back to Erebor; enough to once more feel the joy and life filling the mountain.  They came back like birds flocking to their nests – old and young, warriors and craftsmen. They came to see the home they’ve barely remembered, to see the king they’ve only heard stories of.

They came to kneel before him and cheer as the crown was placed on his head.

And he looked at them with his eyes full of love and welcomed them back home. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this chapter is laughably short, but as the original was written for LJ it just seemed right for me to put it as a separate snippet.  
> The last chapter will be a long one, though;) Like, a really long one with Bilbo and stuff...


	3. Chapter 3

Fili and Kili got better by the time of the coronation. Both were still pale and somewhat weak, but they were alive and mobile. Bilbo suspected that one day they just sneaked out of the healing chambers when their caretakers weren’t looking, but he didn’t dare to point it out. Both brothers looked so happy to be on their feet, to laugh again and finally be able to see their heirloom, their real home, in person.

They were hard to find on most days, busy with exploring, permanently stuck in the state of often comical amazement. Mind, someone was always following them discreetly – usually Nori – to make sure that the heirs of the King Under the Mountain won’t fall into some forgotten mineshaft or get lost in a maze of corridors.  

When they were around, they were often to be found around Bilbo – and the Hobbit was grateful for it. He felt strange in Erebor – the Kingdom was breath-taking, but it was so big… bigger and grander than Rivendell, and even more majestic. When he finally had some time to properly look at it, everything that his eyes rested on was simply amazing: the craftsmanship, the jewels, ornaments and statues…

But it was also cold and serious, with harshness hidden in straight lines and sharp edges. And it was all so grand and so big – while he was just a small Hobbit. He felt trapped even when he was standing on the balcony overlooking the plain at the feet of the mountain. He felt cold even when he was sleeping close to the fire, swathed in thick furs and blankets.

It was not a place for a Hobbit, never would be, but he couldn’t force himself to leave. 

Because this, here, was the end of his adventure – and Bilbo Baggins didn’t want it to end.

His friends were here. His King…

Funny, he would bet no one ever suspected that a Hobbit of all creatures would bow to a dwarf King. Much less to one as harsh and prideful, and foolish, and stubborn… as Thorin Oakenshield.

But Bilbo was always somewhat less respectful than other Hobbits; it was his Took blood, for sure.

He didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t see himself staying. The Kingdom he’s helped to rescue from the dragon wasn’t his home more than Bag End would be a home for his friends.

But… he was already missing them, even when they were so close. He couldn’t imagine going back to Hobbiton, to his old boring life where nothing ever happened.

They all seemed so… happy here. The Company, turned almost-family, was rewarded for their bravery and loyalty, they were all rich dwarves now. Bilbo didn’t regret giving up his share of the treasure, but it was nice to see his friends enjoying a worry-free life for the first time since he’s met them. There was still a lot to do in the mountain – Smaug caused a lot of damage that needed to be dealt with. Water and food were the primary concerns now, but with the riches of Erebor at his disposal, Thorin could acquire them with little trouble. 

And so, as it happened so often lately, Bilbo’s thoughts went back to the dwarf King.

He didn’t want to leave without a proper closure – they’ve both made some poor choices and said many harsh words to each other before the battle. He hoped that the friendship and respect he’s fought tooth and nail for weren’t gone from Thorin’s heart; that his betrayal didn’t wipe them out permanently. That the words of forgiveness from the dying King were honest.

But he couldn’t be sure, as he didn’t talk with the dwarf in question even once in the last two months. Actually, Bilbo tried to avoid him as much as possible, which was not very nice of a well-mannered Hobbit, but he couldn’t force himself to stop.

Because Thorin has changed in the ways one little Halfling from Shire couldn’t even attempt to comprehend.

On one hand Bilbo knew why that was, he was present when… when Thorin… when the Arkenstone broke in two. He certainly didn’t imagine that a person could go through _that_ and still be the same.  And it wasn’t a change for worse, oh no, of course not!

But was it better?

Bilbo couldn’t decide. What he knew for sure was that this change distressed some part of him, scared it so much that the rest couldn’t force it into coherency.

Fili and Kili shared some of his apprehension, but they were too relieved to have their uncle alive to ask questions they didn’t want to hear answers to. Now they were even closer to Thorin than before, both scared half to death by the thought of losing him. And he was probably scared of losing them too. A proof of that Bilbo could easily find in their silent guardians, in Thorin dressing his nephews in the best fabrics and adorning their hair with silver and jewels. As if the King tried to give them back something he thought they were missing while growing up in exile. They both looked like real princes now, both patiently enduring the coddling and dressing up. Though, Bilbo was pretty sure that the brothers were secretly enjoying this onslaught of affection from their usually stoic father figure.

He wasn’t beyond the reach of said onslaught, himself.

The room he was given in the Mountain was rich and undamaged, close to the surface and with actual windows – to honour his need of light and fresh air. His clothes were all made to measure and embellished with gold tread, and they made him look less like a respectable Hobbit and more like a pampered dwarfling. He didn’t make a fuss about it solely for the reason that his new attire included one rather handsome waistcoat with beautiful set of shiny buttons.

And it would be perfect - if every dwarfess he’s met on his way didn’t want to braid his hair!

“There you are!”

Bilbo’s head went up at the sound of a young cheerful voice entering his quiet study. He smiled automatically at the sight of an unmistakeable blond mane that today sported about a dozen small braids interwoven with golden bands and tiny blue beads.

“I haven’t seen you at the evening meal, Mister Burglar,” Fili smiled back to him, curiously looking at the scrolls laid out on the table between them. “And I didn’t yet hear of a Hobbit skipping a meal!”

Bilbo laughed at that and started gathering his reading materials, folding them neatly in the correct order.

“Hobbits eat often, but in moderate amounts, while you dwarves do the opposite,” he explained. “I need two of your meals to feel full for a fortnight!”

“This is a blatant lie, but I will let it slide,” said Fili. “I was tasked with finding you and bringing you back, thus I would prefer if you allowed me to do it without much protest.” Fili bowed and offered his hand to the chuckling Hobbit – who swathed it away, but followed the blond anyway.

“Is Kili in trouble again?” He asked as they were leaving the library. “What did he do this time?”

Usually the brothers were inseparable – seeing them apart meant that either Fili was needed by Thorin or that Kili was being scolded by him.

“Not this time, Mister Baggins, he is with mother at the moment,” Fili smiled and winked, lowering his voice confidentially. “I think there’s a lass that caught his eye and because my brother has neither looks nor brains, he has also no idea how to proceed in this matter.”

Bilbo laughed outright and continued to snigger as Fili led him along the corridors and bridges; passing by other dwarves who mostly went about their business without much staring at the strange creature among them. Easy banter effectively distracted him from the direction of their march. That is, until they stopped in front of a massive gate made of granite and iron that the Hobbit knew only too well.

The treasury.

He stopped, frozen, and looked questioningly at Fili who shrugged apologetically before pushing the door a little – enough for a Hobbit to sneak through.

“Uncle requested to see you,” he explained quietly. “And I… we, me and Kili… would also like for you to see him. He asked about you many times, but you… you never ask about him.”

Bilbo didn’t have an answer to that. Or maybe, there was one; he just didn’t want to share it with anyone. So he did the next worst thing he could and stepped thought the door to meet his King.

 

*

 

He’s found him on the bottom of the staircase, sitting on the last step, looking at the piles of gold in front of him. Bilbo didn’t know what to do so he stopped in a distance he thought is respectful enough and waited. It took few long minutes before Thorin stood up and, without turning, spoke to him.

“You are afraid of me now, Halfling.”

Bilbo had to remind himself that this is the King Under the Mountain he is speaking to before he snorted at the accusation. Of course he wasn’t afraid! He was never afraid of Thorin Oakenshield, that rude dwarf who came to his home and looked at him with disdain! He was intimidated on occasion, sometimes disheartened by his blatant disregard for everything Hobbit-ish, but afraid?

He opened his mouth to tell exactly that when the King decided to turn around and look at him – which turned Bilbo’s words into a jumbled mess.

“Me? Of... of course… I mean… not!”

Thank goodness it was ignored.

“It is a strange thing,” said the King coming closer, his eyes never leaving the Hobbit. “Because you’ve faced Azog and spiders of Mirkwood, you’ve faced the dragon in its lair. And yet it is me you fear now.”

“You have no idea how afraid I was before, Your Highness,” Bilbo managed to chuckle and used the opportunity to look to the side, away from that prying stare. From these alien eyes. “I am not the bravest of creatures.”

“Have you any idea how untrue those words are?”

Calloused, but gentle fingers cupped his cheek and turned his face up, back to where he was forced to return the look he was receiving.

“Why do you fear me?”

“I do not fear you,” Bilbo struggled to keep his voice calm, to hold his gaze steady. “I am simply… not used to you, Your Highness.”

“Bilbo Baggins,” the King spoke kindly, his other hand rising to properly cup his burglar’s face. “You’ve earned the right to call me by my name a long time ago. You, out of all, are to thank for giving me my home back. My Kingdom and my people. There’s more bravery in you than anyone would expect, why would you fear me?”  

Bilbo struggled for words. Thorin’s gaze was boring into his, expectant and full of emotions that one little Hobbit from far away Shire couldn’t understand fully. It was heavy with affection and appreciation. But it was strange to him now, because these eyes weren’t blue anymore. Not as Bilbo remembered them.

They were almost golden, but not. It was the colour of stars glimmering in the cold night’s sky, ever changing, yet constant. Like a bright winter sun reflected in the clearest water.  There was no way to hide from that look, to not feel small when it was directed at him.

Thorin’s eyes were always expressive and his stare unyielding, as it was only to be expected from a King, but now there was even more to it. He was a King, and he was something _else_ , something _more_.

A tiny, shivering voice in the back of Bilbo’s mind whispered him a possible answer ( _a Kingdom_ ), but he tried to ignore it. In the end he couldn’t stand the silence that fell between him and the dwarf, with the cold grandeur of the chamber pressing at them from all sides. “It’s just… I have seen you dead,” he spoke. There was fear in his voice, but his eyes were full of relief and wonder.  “We said our goodbyes, Thorin Oakenshield. And now you are alive again and… and not the same as you were.”

It was an immense relief to finally say these words out loud, to speak the truth that haunted him for months, always present, but unacknowledged.

And Thorin didn’t snatch his hands away, didn’t protest the accusation (was it even an accusation? There was only quiet fear in Bilbo’s timid voice; it was only truth that was spoken). His stare softened, though, just like his touch on Bilbo’s face.

“I am, indeed,” was a calm answer. There might have been sadness in those unearthly eyes, but it was hard to tell when one didn’t want to spend too long staring into them. “And that frightens you.”

Hands from his face moved down to rest on his shoulders and Bilbo haltingly covered them with his own, marvelling how small they were in comparison. Memory of Thorin shaking the life out of him re-surfaced for a moment, but was quickly buried back. It was a long time ago and that Thorin, blinded by rage and greed and feeling of betrayal, was different.    

“A lot frightens me now.” Bilbo admitted quietly. “Mostly my own thoughts.”

“What thoughts?”

“I should want to go home,” he said, lowering his head in shame. He shouldn’t, because it was only normal for a Hobbit, only natural… but his mind was strange of late. “I am a Hobbit, Thorin, we are… homely creatures. We feel best in our homes. I fulfilled my contract and I should go back…”

Fingers resting on his shoulders tightened slightly, urging him to continue.

“But?” The King lowered his head as if to rest his brow against his burglar’s.

“…But I want to stay here! And this is strange, because I don’t want to stay here! Erebor is beautiful, really,” Bilbo hurried to assure. “It is magnificent and grand and… and… and it’s too big and too cold. And Hobbits live in small holes in the ground not under any mountains!  I… I should want to go home.”

And yet he wanted to call this mountain “ _home_ ”! He wanted to stay within it, safe and protected by these same thick walls that blocked him form sun or sky. Everything was harsh and solid, nothing felt like the comfort of his own home – and yet some part of him found comfort in that austerity, in the promise of _eternity_ engraved into every stone under his feet and over his head.

It was as if two separate natures suddenly decided to wage a war in his heart – one belonging to a Hobbit, probably a Baggins, the other to a dwarf or something similar. A badger, maybe?

Bilbo trembled when Thorin eased back, letting his hands drop and looked at the Hobbit strangely. It was a sad look, but there was determination visible in the way his black eyebrows stayed low, in the way his lips tightened.

“Would you rather stay in Lake Town?” The King asked.

It was a surprising proposal, completely unexpected.

And impossible.

“No, Thorin. Hobbits don’t live amongst Big People. It’s too inconvenient.”

As Bilbo was talking, Thorin turned away from him, walking to the pile of chests stacked by the nearest wall. His thick, yet nimble fingers dived into the mass of golden trinkets: chains and coins and beads of all shapes and sizes. Bilbo followed him, curious and a little apprehensive – he remembered all too well how Gold Sickness looked, how it made his friends’ eyes shine with greed and their mouths twist unpleasantly.  

Thorin seemed healed, when he… came back.  He didn’t spend much time in the treasure room, almost none at all; neither did he seek to multiply his fortune.  If one looked carefully, they would find that the gold and jewels were leaving Erebor in a steady flow and what stayed behind was often seen glistening in Fili’s hair or on Kili’s neck. Lady Dis was presented a gown stitched with silver thread and studded with three hundred tiny sapphires. Dwalin’s new battle axe was inlaid with gold over mythril and his brother’s deep burgundy robes could fill Royal Advisers all over Middle Earth with jealousy. Bilbo himself liked to pretend that the shiny buttons on his vest were made of brass…

Every member of the Company has been pulled into Thorin’s caring arms. The King protected them and provided for them and their families as if it was his sacred duty.

It was distressing to see him now, though, focused on the gold under his fingers and so quiet.

“Would you rather have a… smial built on the sunny side of the plain? Would you stay then?”

Bilbo stared. He barely managed to gather his wits and answer before Thorin turned back to him. “What?” He felt his face heat up. “No… I mean, goodness! It’s very nice of you to offer… and I am sure your people would do a great job of it, but… It wouldn’t be my home, Thorin, I am sorry, I already have one,” he finished with a hint of despair.

Because, it was so tempting to say “yes”. So tempting to stay. 

Thorin stepped back to him as he was talking, fingers toying with some scrap of shiny metal he’s pulled out of the pile. On closer inspection it turned out to be a little clasp made of silver and adorned with an orange gem – and the Hobbit had only a moment to inspect it before it was… put into his hair and clasped gently on some stray locks over his left ear. King looked at it for a moment, completely ignoring Bilbo’s startled expression and reddening cheeks.

 “I can order to have your home transported from the Shire,” he said in the end.

And Bilbo surprised them both with his loud protest. “No!” He grabbed Thorin’s hand in both of his and shook it lightly. “No, please, it stays where it is! I am sorry, but I… I can’t stay…” his throat closed at the last words and he barely managed to push them out.

The dwarf just nodded, completely unsurprised. As if he expected this answer all along.

“I am sorry, my burglar,” his smile was small and wistful. “It seems that we want to keep you with us very much indeed.”

“We?”

“My Kingdom and I. We’re greedy, Bilbo, we want to keep all our treasures close.” And for a moment he looked like the Thorin Bilbo knew before: pride and stubbornness mixed into one stone-steady expression on the face that reminded the Hobbit of a night almost two years ago when a haughty dwarven Prince stood on his doorstep.

Bilbo would be happy about it if he wasn’t busy with figuring out what was just said to him.

“Erebor... wants?”

Because it couldn’t be…

“You were there.” Thorin said, suddenly frustrated. “You’ve seen it.”

“I don’t understand what I’ve seen!” Bilbo countered with his own annoyance at the assumption that he should be versed in the strange dwarven magic!

“Didn’t the Wizard explain anything to you?”

“Gandalf? No…”

The King released a weary sigh and stepped closer yet, stopping Bilbo from moving back by grabbing his hand and pulling it to his chest, pressing the small palm to a place over his heart. The Hobbit swallowed nervously at the bold gesture, but he couldn’t take his limb away – he was pretty much trapped again by that unearthly stare.  Because of that it took him a moment longer than it should to realise what was expected of him. It took Thorin’s fingers pressing at his hand to understand that he was supposed to pay attention _there_. 

Bilbo could feel the fine material of Kingly robe at his fingertips, rows of tiny little stitches and gem shards. He could feel the strong, unyielding layer of muscle the dwarf was seemingly made out of. And underneath it…

Underneath it was a heartbeat.

It was slow and steady, languid almost.

So different from his own – much too slow, too even. And so _very_ familiar.

Bilbo recognised it with a startled gasp – he held it in his hands once, that same warmth and pulse, he knew that rhythm.

Arkenstone.

“Oh, Eru…” he whispered, unable to find any other words to covey his amazement.

Because it all made sense, suddenly the pieces fell into place and it was so obvious! Thorin’s eyes were the colour of the Arkenstone. His heart was replaced by its pulse…

 _Thorin died on the plain_ , Bilbo realised with growing horror. Thorin has died and the Mountain brought him back. And it stayed with him. And now, whenever the dwarf was looking at Bilbo with his strange eyes – the Mountain was looking too. Whenever he made new laws and welcomed his people back with love in his voice – the Mountain shared it. Whenever his presence grew to fill the chambers where Men and Elves argued with him about new trade routes or his gold – it was the Mountain lending him her gravitas and stature, her heavy shadow.

Bilbo wasn’t sure if he wants to step back or not, and anyway the decision was taken out of his hands, for the King was still holding his limb captive. And it wasn’t unpleasant to feel all that strength under his trembling palm; not at all.

“We can let you go,” Thorin said quietly, once again touching his burglar’s face with a gentle hand. “If you don’t want to stay we can release you. You are a gentle being, Bilbo Baggins, and you need sun and green and sky. We would keep you safe in the deepest vaults, behind iron doors and it wouldn’t be right. I can let you go.” For a moment there, the King sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.   

That caused Bilbo to gather his courage and ask, “But?”

“But I don’t want to.” And the smile these words were spoken with was only Thorin’s, quick and sharp, there was nothing else behind it than a pained acceptance. And for a moment it wasn’t a King Under the Mountain standing in front of the Hobbit – it was a crownless prince Bilbo has followed through fire and danger, a stubborn dwarf used to getting his way and losing one thing after another.

It was a dwarf that Bilbo Baggins missed with his whole heart.

The fabric of King’s robe was surprisingly soft under his cheek when Bilbo was pulled closer and strong arms went around him, gathering him close. Folds of the fur coat almost closed around him and Bilbo could not feel safer than in this place he was in now – after all those awful things that’s happened to them on this wretched, wonderful adventure, here, he finally felt at peace.

“You are one of mine,” was murmured into his curly hair and the Hobbit wasn’t sure if it was Thorin speaking or the Mountain. “And you are well loved, halfling.”

He had to swallow a few times until the urge to cling to the dwarf, to crawl under his skin, has passed. He _wanted_ to go _home_! He really did!

 “ _We will let you go_ ,” the whisper was barely there this time, almost silent. “ _But you will take our heart with you._ ”

And, Bilbo knew, he would leave a piece of his own heart behind.

 

*

 

Thorin made sure that his Hobbit gets a sturdy pony and an escort to take him safely over the Misty Mountains. He trusted the Wizard with many things, but this was not one of them, no matter how the old man grumbled and grunted about the stubbornness of the dwarves. His nephews and companions saw Bilbo to the edge of Mirkwood and bid him farewells. Thorin wished to go with them, but he couldn’t.

He will never be able to go West and visit their Hobbit in the Shire. He will never get a second chance to see his strange little home, to make sure in person that his life is as good as it should be. He was the King Under the Mountain now, he was so much more than that. He was his Kingdom and his people and his duty laid in Erebor.

His eyes could see far, thought, and he watched over his Hobbit until the forest swallowed him up, like a hungry beast that it was. The Elves promised to allow him safe passage, but Thorin feared, even though his distrust and hate towards them dimmed with time. He didn’t hate Thranduil now, not anymore, he was a mountain, his heart was rock and such base emotion was below him. The only creature he ever hated was dead now, and all that he loved were safe and accounted for. Even, if far away.

And it didn’t feel right – for the Mountain was possessive in her love and Thorin even more so, - but the dwarf knew his decision was right. His greed has already cost him more pain than he would care to remember.

He dreamed often now; of pain and death, of unbearable sadness that clawed at his heart. He dreamt the dreams of the Mountain when she was cold and alone, with no one to sing and love her, with naught but cold winds to keep her company in her misery. His heart kept breaking time after time.

And sometimes, the Mountain dreamt his dreams – about death and blood, and pain of losing his family and his people. About the harsh journey, hunger and poverty. She wept for her children in those dreams.

But there were also good dreams to be had. Ones where he stood in front of Her – and She was beautiful beyond words and older than everything he knew. He stood before Her and basked in the love She had for her children, and they were both happy with the happiness of their people and Thorin was almost drunk on the feelings that were flowing through their shared heart.

“ _He is one of ours_ ,” She would tell him, sadness in her voice.

“ _He is,”_ he would agree. _“But we want him happy more than anything.”_

She would nod in perfect understanding and her arms would go around him, warm as gold and steady as granite. Her affection would fill every corner of his soul and he would wonder how he's managed to live without it for so long.

 _“Yvanna’s child loves you,”_ She would say. _“And for that we will love him too.”_

They were a Mountain.

A Kingdom.

Erebor.

Their will was stone and their love was endless.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be something of a short Epilogue to this story I will post on days - because I am an idiot and can't seem to finish anything without a little extra does of angst and fluff>___>
> 
> Oh well, this was a strange story and i hope you liked it:)

**Author's Note:**

> Funny thing, in my first language the 'mountain' is a feminine noun, so I am treating Erebor as 'her' grammar-wise.  
> Because, yeah>_>


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